


When the Storm Comes

by MarInk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 08:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17894888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarInk/pseuds/MarInk
Summary: Draco Malfoy visits a quiet, sunny little town full of kind, sweet people. What a perfect place to live it would be if it were real.





	When the Storm Comes

Evidently, Draco is expected.

On a sunlit, quaint platform there is a man waiting for him. As the train gradually quiets down, the silence and the summer heat hug Draco like a blanket, complete with the cloying sweet aroma of flowers. If he strains his hearing, he is sure he will hear bees buzzing about their bee business.

The man is beautiful and he stands like he knows it, his posture straight but relaxed, his heavy robes draping his lean body with fluid folds. They remind Draco of bold brushstrokes defining a painting. The man’s dark eyes and dark hair are incongruous here, on the sunny little platform; he watches Draco with a smile.

The wooden boards of the flooring creak under Draco’s boots as he walks toward the man.

“I am so very pleased to meet you,” the man says. “Please call me Tom.”

“Likewise,” Draco says. He finds it easy to grin at Tom and hold out his hand for a friendly shake. “I’m Draco.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” Tom’s hand is dry and warm. Briefly, Draco wonders if there is a cooling charm on those robes. Surely, without one even someone with as much poise as Tom would be clammy with sweat. “We don’t get many visitors around here. Each one creates quite a kerfuffle, I’m afraid.”

“Is that so?” Draco questions jokingly.

Tom turns to leave the platform and Draco falls into step beside him.

“It is a small town.” Tom’s lips quirk in yet another smile. Draco finds this somewhat endearing - where he comes from, people tend to hide what they feel.

Where does he come from, by the way?

Draco frowns. The flowers along the path they are taking smell wonderfully, their bright lush tops sway in the light breeze.

There was something important he wanted to do here. Whatever was that?

“This is not a town for important things,” Draco says out loud. He catches himself and glances at Tom, waiting for the man to be offended.

“You are quite right,” Tom says. “Nothing important ever touches us. We like it that way, you know. This is a place for rest.”

Draco weighs Tom’s words. They sound like a warning of sorts but there is no need for that, is there? The only thing Draco wants is vacation. All the dratted important things he’s been doing for years have left him drained. Perhaps, here he can start healing.

“We’re having a block party tonight,” Tom says. His eyes under his long eyelashes are dark, dark; Draco finds himself drawn to them. “As the Mayor of our humble town, I invite you to take part.”

“It sounds lovely,” Draco says. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“No need. There will be plenty of food and drinks to go around. And if some of our esteemed citizens feel up to it, there will be music and dancing. I hope it will not seem too crude to you. You look like a man used to refinement.”

Draco chuckles. He is only seventeen and no one has ever called him a man. However, Tom himself is young, so maybe here being only just of age is not considered a flaw of one’s character.

“It sounds lovely,” he repeats. “I’ll be there.”

* * *

The party is not to start until after dark, and Draco find himself with a whole tumble of time on his hands. He feels rich, possessing all those minutes he can spend doing what he wants, even if it is nothing at all. His mind is delighted, alive with the possibilities.

He slips out of the tiny hotel which Tom recommended to him, adding with a laugh that it is the only hotel in town, so, indisputably, it is the best. The heavy soles of Draco’s boots hit the pebbled path outside with audible thuds and he revels in those. He just lets himself listen and breathe, and oh, what air this place has. Crisp, and sweet, and clean, earthy and fresh; if Draco could, he would cut it up and ate it with a spoon.

His meandering steps take him along the streets. He watches lazy cats perching on the fences and batting creeping vines without letting claws out. He watches light gray smoke going up chimneys, feels spicy smells of food wafting out from behind neat white curtains. There are only a few people in the streets. Everyone Draco passes is polite: they say hello and smile, tip their hats. A small boy gives Draco his apple. Draco relishes the feel of the smooth apple skin, the curves of it under Draco’s fingers. The apple bursts into sweet and tart juice when he bites it.

He stops only when he happens upon a building site. Piles and piles of golden wooden boards surround it; the actual site is covered with thick cloth and from time to time a beaver or two appear from behind the cloth, take a board and hurry back.

Draco can’t help but laugh as they work. His peals of laughter bubble out of him, ringing in the sleepy silence of the afternoon.

“They are precious, I agree,” an amused voice says next to him.

Draco, still laughing, turns his head. A kindly-looking man is standing next to him. There it is, one more smile directed at Draco by a local resident, and Draco can’t help but feel warmer inside for it. The man is all softness and patience, and there is something about him that makes Draco want to be good for this man, to not let him down.

“Remus,” the man says. “And you are Draco, I take it?”

“I am,” Draco agrees and takes one more bite out of his apple. It’s so red and shines blindingly in the sun, and it tastes sweet like none of any other apples Draco had tried before. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Remus’s eyes sparkle with humor even as he keeps the laughter out of his voice.

“It does indeed. There is one thing you should know about our Mayor: when he is faced with good news, he can’t stand to deal with it on his own. He spreads it all over town so we can all take a part of it. In fact, he insisted on writing it into our town charter.”

“It must be such a burden upon you and your fellow citizens,” Draco says, with face as straight as he can possibly master.

“You cannot imagine how cumbersome.” Remus breaks into a smile, as warm as any ray of sunshine. “You seem to be interested in our little helpers.”

“It is quite remarkable for wild animals to be domesticated so,” Draco returns his attention to the beavers. The little fuzzy builders do not appear fazed in the slightest, carrying on as if there is not a human, talking, laughing and staring at them at a very small distance.

“They may be wild but they are also smart little fiends. They know we pay in carrots, and sugar, and fresh ocean fish. Work such as this is not difficult for them, and they are well compensated for it.”

“What are they building?”

“A Potions Laboratory,”

“You haven’t had one before?”

“We got by. There is not a single Potions Master amongst us, you see. None of us feel a particular inclination towards the art.”

“What changed, then? Why build one now, of all times?”

“We have a guest with a talent for Potions.”

“Truly? Who is he - or she?”

“It is you, of course.” Remus chuckles at Draco’s confounded expression. “We take hospitality seriously here in Little Whinging. What if you got tired of our nature and simple pleasures and found yourself longing for a simmering cauldron? It would already be waiting for you in the laboratory, with an array of ingredients wide enough to satisfy most needs.”

Draco looks at the building site again with new, awed eyes. It is for him, and for that fact alone it is wondrous, even though he has not even glimpsed it yet. The beavers are careful not to let any part of the future laboratory to be seen as they move hither and thither, cautious like a mother that does not let a child see their present before Christmas morning.

Draco bites his apple again, shutting his eyes tight against the pleasure. There is excitement and anticipation coiling in his chest but over all of them contentment prevails, filling Draco with a hazy sensation of safety and happiness - not so strong that it would disturb the peace but steady and there nonetheless.

This vacation has to be the most fortunate idea in Draco’s life. Draco only wishes he remembered whom to address a thank-you note for giving it to him - a name or a face eludes him, dripping from his mental fingers like apple juice is dripping from his real ones.

“I cannot begin to express my gratitude,” Draco whispers, finding his voice unsteady.

“No need for that,” Remus says. He lays a gentle hand on Draco’s shoulder; the touch is feather-light but it almost makes Draco’s knees buckle for some unfathomable reason. “We are happy to give you what you want and we ask for nothing in return.”

* * *

When Draco leaves the building site with great reluctance, Remus stays behind - he says he needs to watch over the beavers. According to Remus, he has a special connection to them. “Many say it is because I am as fluffy and warm as they are,” Remus explained bashfully. “I do think they exaggerate but the beavers trust me above others, so here I am. Here for them.”

Draco continues his walk through the town.

As he turns a corner, he can see snowy owls in the middle of the street - seven of them, all identical. They hoot softly, preen their feathers. Draco crouches next to them and reaches out to touch one.

“Hello,” he whispers. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, all white and majestic?”

The owl seems to agree with him. She nips his thumb playfully, causing no pain. Draco gathers her up in his arms slowly and tenderly. The rest of the owls crowd him, their wings brushing the bare skin of his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up.

“I wish I had a letter for you to deliver,” Draco tells the owl. She looks back at him seriously. “You would then be soaring through the sky, as you have always been meant to do. Unfortunately, I do not have many friends here yet. Do you suppose I could write to Tom or Remus? Or is it unnecessary as I will see them at the party tonight?”

The owl touches her beak to Draco’s cheek. She does not seem to mind that he has no task for her as if him being here is also enough for her. For her to be here is also enough for him, Draco thinks, his heart swelling with affection.

He spends the rest of the afternoon here, on the cobblestones warmed by the sun, the owls clinging to him as much as he is clinging to them. His limbs never fall asleep from sitting cross-legged and holding an armful of fragile birds, and it is as it should be. He and his owl have always been the best of friends, from the start.

* * *

The sundown is luscious. The sky is swirling with colors, deep purple flowing into soft pink, highlighted with the last golden rays of the setting sun. Draco watches it mesmerized. The local residents come out, chatty and lovely, and step around Draco nimbly as if they are dancing; they do not disturb him. When he is willing to tear his eyes away from the sheer beauty, the grills have been lit and their orange fire suffuses the inky darkness of the evening.

Draco stands up, not a speck of dust on his trousers, and brushes off a stray white feather from his collar. As his hand goes down, it is caught by fingers strong but gentle and a pleasantly hot glass is pressed into his palm.

Draco looks up and smiles into Tom’s face, his dark eyes like bottomless wells in the twilight surrounding them. Tom curves Draco’s fingers around the glass, one by one, and Draco lets him. Draco’s cheek flush with excitement, he feels giddy, he is drunk on the anticipation of an evening of merriment.

“Drink with us, Draco,” Tom says. “Eat with us, dance with us. The night is young, and so are we.”

Draco drinks - sweet, sharp punch that makes his head swim just a tad; Draco eats - spicy sausages dribbling clear fragrant juice all over his hands; Draco dances with abandon, from the arms of a beautiful woman with breathtaking green eyes into the arms of a beautiful man whose striking features are only enhanced by the tattoos he bears. There are many redheads here and Draco imagines that with his silver blond hair he stands out among them, a spark of light caught in the midst of a fiery sea. He dances with Remus and with Tom and with another dark-haired man whose eyes are haunted and wild, and with a slim girl whose untameable curly hair dance a dance of their own as Draco twirls her away from himself and then back again.

Draco does not kiss anybody but he thinks that he could, and anyone in here would kiss him back; this night is magical, endless, truly amazing, and all the good things will happen to Draco here and none of the bad ones. He knows it with the same certainty that applies to knowing that the sky is blue and the grass is green.

Draco raises his hands to the stars and laughs and dances, as carefree as he has never been before.

Oh, how he loves it here.

He dances until the the sky begins to lighten and the mood shifts together with its colour. Eventually, everyone is calm; they sit all together in the middle of the street and watch the sun rise, majestic as ever. There are warm, living bodies all around Draco, hands on his shoulders, hair tickling his neck, breath on the shell of his ear that makes him shiver. Draco feels so gloriously alive as he leans back, knowing he will be supported and cared for and met with joy - never a burden, never an inconvenience.

He could stay here forever.

* * *

Draco knows not how long he has slept. It must, however, be at least noon already: the sun is high up. Draco gets up, his feet bare, and steps into the pool of sunlight on the floor. The boards are hot and he enjoys the sensation for a while, simply being there as he wakes up little by little, caressed by the sun, inhaling deeply the sweet air.

He partakes of breakfast foods given to him by a cheerful woman named Petunia and listens to her chatter as she goes around her daily chores. Her little hotel is spotless and cozy, every piece of furniture made of smooth gleaming wood, the rugs on the floor obviously hand-knitted. The keys to the rooms hang on an ornate board and the sunlight tangles between their intricate bronze bodies.

As Draco finishes the last of his tea - exquisitely made, with just as much milk as he prefers - Tom steps into the hotel.

“Good afternoon, Draco.” Tom smiles and Draco feels blessed with this smile. “I trust you have slept well?”

“I could not have slept better indeed. Would you care for some tea? I do recommend Petunia’s scones.”

“Tempting as it is, I am afraid I have to decline. I have already had breakfast. I have, in fact, come here to see you.”

“Then by all means, look your fill.” Draco smiles at Tom shyly over the rim of his cup. He is unused to attention of any kind from other people and it makes him slightly nervous, butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“And so I shall.” Tom graces Draco with yet another smile before continuing. “Would you like me to give you a tour of Little Whinging after you have finished eating?”

“I would like it very much,” Draco says, quite truthfully. “Will such a tour not interrupt your duties? As a mayor, you surely have many matters clamoring for your attention.”

“Not as many you seem to think I have. And none of them is as important as making a guest in our town happy.”

Tom offers Draco his hand.

“Shall we?”

Draco takes his hand without hesitation and allows Tom to lead him outside.

They take their time walking along idyllic streets, each house boasting fresh paint, and cheerful curtains, and blooming flowers. There is distant children’s laugh in the air and the sound of wind gently touching tree leaves. There is also a smell Draco did not catch last night, and it intrigues him.

“Tell me, Tom, does Little Whinging happen to stand near the sea? I feel the smell of sea salt in the breeze.”

A strange shadow flicks over Tom’s face; however, it is gone as soon as it comes and it must have just been a trick of light.

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

“Will you take me to the shore?”

“As you wish. However, I bid you to be careful while there, Draco. The beach is... not as well-kept as the town itself. I would go so far as to say that it is rather unkempt.”

Draco laughs.

“With you by my side no amount of litter will make me cower in fear,” he says. “Or do you have monsters lurking by your shore, that you worry for my safety so? Is a giant squid straight from the lightless depths waiting for me to arrive so it can dine on human flesh?”

“I assure you most insistently that no such nonsense as a guest-eating squid would ever be permitted to remain in my town.” Tom looks amused, and Draco is glad. “Please, take my arm and I shall lead you to the sea.”

Draco slips his fingers around Tom’s expectantly bent elbow and follows Tom and the smell of the sea. He is happy that Tom is agreeable to accompanying him to the shore; had Tom refused, Draco fears he would have had to be rude and abandon Tom in order to head over to the beach on his own as some part of Draco is drawn to the very idea of the sea, of its crystal clear blue waves, the tangle of squishy seaweed and the plush sensation of fine sand pressing against bare soles. It is not something Draco can resist, and even if he could, he sees no reason to do so.

They do not walk far. After only several turns suddenly, the sea is there, the shining blue expanse of wonder; and there is the beach, filled with white sand and erratically strewn driftwood and seashells. All of it is enormous - almost too enormous for a place as tiny as Little Whinging - and indisputably beautiful but it is not what catches Draco’s attention. 

A young man is sitting next to the water, waves lapping at his feet. He is hugging his knees; his overly large shirt billows in the wind like a boat sail. His hair is abominably unkempt and Draco thinks distantly that it must have been what Tom meant when referring to the shore as such. The man turns his head towards Draco and Tom, having most likely heard the steady click of Draco’s boots on the pavement. The sun glints off the man’s glasses in a sharp array of sparks.

Draco has not yet seen the man’s face properly but what he has glimpsed is enough to fill Draco with unease. A feeling of foreboding brings a few beads of sweat on Draco’s upper lip and makes Draco’s breath catch in his throat - yet he cannot bring himself to look away.

“Ah, I see you noticed our Harry,” Tom says. There is a subtle note of displeasure in his voice.

“Who is he?” Draco asks.

“Isn’t that an interesting question? I, as many others, including dear Harry, would love to know. Unfortunately, ever since Harry was found by Petunia here on the beach, washed up on our shore, he has not remembered anything about himself and his former life but his first name.”

“Harry,” Draco tastes the name on his tongue and finds it disturbing, like a Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean the moment its taste begins to unfold and turns out to be a highly unpleasant one.

Draco must meet this... Harry, if only to put an end to this unease that Draco does not like.

With that thought in mind, Draco lets Tom’s arm go and strolls across the beach to where Harry is waiting for him, calm and unmoving. Excellent.

* * *

“So,” Draco says, stopping next to Harry. “You are the debris the sea washed up.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Harry says, his lips quirking in a derisive smile. “Rude one, are you?”

Draco flushes.

“It’s not rude to point out the truth,” he informs Harry, chin held high. “Anyway, why are you sitting here? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”

“You know, I don’t think I have seen you around here before, but it’s just as well,” Harry’s eyes narrow. “You might be new but you are just like them.”

“Like who?”

“Like all the rest of them.” Harry jerks his shoulder dismissively in Tom’s general direction. Draco looks back briefly - Tom is standing there, watching them - and turns to Harry again.

“So you’re saying they wanted to help you but you refused?”

“They built me a Quidditch pitch,” Harry snorts. “Well, the beavers did. No one here plays any Quidditch and I don’t even know if I ever sat on a broom. But they went and built it.”

Draco is reminded of a Potions Laboratory built just for him; the pleasure of being cared for washes over him but it is somehow weaker than before.

“Shouldn’t you be grateful for that?” He demands. “They did so much for you, and you’re just sitting here, sulking and doing nothing!”

“Nobody bloody well asked them to do anything!” Harry snaps. His arms unfurl from where they have been embracing Harry’d pointy knees, only to let his hands curl into fists. “And even if I’m an ungrateful freak, what do you care? I have nothing to be grateful to you for!”

“Well, I like these people!” Draco almost shouts. It feels good in a nasty kind of way to yell at somebody, especially at this Harry who is all sharp angles, defiance and stubborn green eyes behind a pair of thoroughly moronic glasses. “And it offends me when you belittle their efforts!”

Harry gets to his feet and Draco suddenly find himself nose to nose with Harry.

“Get out of my face,” Harry spits out, and isn’t it laughable, considering that Harry was the one who got into Draco’s face to begin with. “You arrogant, stupid little...”

“There’s nothing little about me,” Draco states. He is not going to be intimidated by the spite and vitriol that Harry is spewing at him. “It’s you who is behaving like a spoiled child!”

“I am not spoiled!”

“How do you know?” Draco inquires. “You don’t remember anything about yourself, do you? Or did you lie about that to gather sympathy from the good people of this town?”

Unexpectedly, the fight goes out of Harry. His shoulders slump and he turns his face away from Draco. And it was just starting to get good, Draco thinks, slightly disappointed that Harry did not take the bait.

“I don’t. Remember anything, that is.”

Harry’s hair hangs low as he bows his head; now it does not only cover his forehead but gets into his eyes as well. Uncombed and full of sand, it gives him a feral look, and Draco’s hands itch with a wish to take a brush to it. It offends Draco’s aesthetic sense as it is. It’s atrocious.

“Time to make some new memories, then,” Draco offers. “Go put yourself to good use. Help somebody. Apologize to everyone you insulted.”

Harry snorts.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says. “I’ll go make some new memories when the storm comes.”

“The storm?” Draco glances at the sea. It’s clear and calm all the way to the horizon, its waves lazy and smooth like molten glass. It seems that if there is to be a storm, it will not be tonight.

“I’ve been here for a while,” Harry says. “And it’s the sea. There have to be storms, right? But there has never been one.”

“Obviously, you haven’t been here long enough,” Draco says. “It’s the sea. It will be storming soon.”

“So you are taking the deal? Until the storm comes, you don’t get to harass me about trying to fit in.”

Draco looks down at the hand offered by Harry. Draco doesn’t know why, but the sight of this hand, calloused and tanned, makes his heart yearn for something unknown, ache like an old injury might. He hesitates.

“If I don’t get to harass you, what on Earth am I going to do with you?” He asks, a joke turning too flat to be funny on his tongue.

Harry smiles a slow, sly smile.

“I’m sure you can think of something. You’re a big boy after all,” he says. He seems entirely unconcerned about Draco still not shaking his hand.

Scowling, Draco takes Harry’s hand and gives the bastard his best grip, hoping to make him wince. Draco doesn’t know why, but truly refusing to shake Harry’s hand was never an option - even though his refusal would probably not faze Harry in the least.

Stupid Harry.

* * *

Thrice-cursed, stupid Harry, Draco thinks as he stands next to Remus, watching the beavers put the finishing touches on the Potions Laboratory. It is still covered with thick cloth but it is almost complete; as Draco walked back into town, still mulling over his conversation with Harry and fuming, Remus waved him over to wait for the great unveiling together.

If it wasn’t for the idiot Harry, Draco would be able to enjoy his new Laboratory in a proper manner. He would be smiling right now, basking in the pleasure of getting an amazing present, but instead he finds himself wanting to go back to the beach and talk to Harry some more. Maybe punch his stupid face, shatter the worn glasses, wipe the rebellious quirk from his lips. They are probably dry and chapped, those lips. Terribly uncouth, Harry is.

Fresh memories of Harry tag at Draco like a thousand tiny hooks. His anxiety make his heart beat irregularly, and he shifts from foot to foot, impatient for the beavers to be done. They are not, however, to be hurried, and so he stands next to Remus some more and waits.

“Ready?” Remus asks with a kind smile.

Draco nods.

Remus gestures to the beavers and the cloth is thrown aside, revealing a small brass and wood building.

It is compact and modest and, as Draco finds out as he steps inside, highly efficient. Draco does not know precisely how aware beavers are of the concept of Potion-making but they have done a truly marvelous job.

Draco touches with the tips of his fingers rows and rows of beakers, shining in the afternoon sun, jars full of ingredients on sturdy oak shelves, cauldrons set neatly one inside another according to size like a Russian doll, stirrers and leather-bound treatises on all manners of Potions imaginable. Everything is flawlessly clean, cool under his warm skin, and the inside smells like apples and fresh tree sap.

It’s wrong, Draco thinks abruptly. A Potions Laboratory smells like the dampness of the lake murmuring above, audible even through thick stone...

He shudders at the half-formed memory, and it slips out of his mind at once. What was he thinking? There is, of course, absolutely nothing wrong with his utterly perfect gift.

“I cannot begin to thank you for hospitality such as this,” Draco admits to Remus. “I have never heard of Little Whinging before I arrived; however, now I do not wish to know any other places. They will not ever measure up to the warmth in the hearts of the local residents.”

“As I believe I mentioned, there is no need to thank me or anyone,” Remus envelopes Draco in a hug and Draco relaxes into it, feeling safe and cared for in the man’s arm. Remus’s robes smell sweet, like chocolate. “Your joy is gratitude enough.”

“Well, at least let me get some of the biggest carrots it is humanly possible to grow for those little wonders,” Draco smiles, nodding at the beavers who are huddling nearby, ordering their building instruments neatly.

“They will be rewarded in full for their hard work,” Remus pats Draco on the back. “You do not need to concern yourself with such things. Would you like to brew a potion now?”

Draco does, and Draco brews. Glittering dragon scales slip through his fingers as he allows them to hit the viscous, oily surface of the base; dried newt eyes rustle in the jar; salamander skin is warm under his touch. The experience of brewing is visceral like he has never felt before. He does not think, he does not stop, he brews.

At some point, somewhere before Draco knew what was expected of him, he dreamed of being a Potions Master, of being able to brew anything and invent anything; he does not know if there ever was a time when he looked at an empty cauldron and did not feel the urge to fill it with ingredients, simmering, babbling, talking to Draco in the language of smells, tastes and textures. He does not remember now when it was, exactly, and why he could never do it, but he can do as he pleases now, and it pleases him immensely.

Draco works, and Little Whinging is watching over him - like it always will.

* * *

It is dark outside when Draco finishes work, happy and flushed from spending so much time next to the fire. He thinks absently that he should come back to the hotel, have dinner with Petunia. He does not go there right away; he stands in the middle of the town square for a while, breathing in the sweet air. The white owl - whose name is just on the tip of his tongue - nuzzles his cheek and hoots affectionately.

As the evening grows colder by incremental degrees, Draco thinks of Harry. Does the stubborn git stay on that beach at all times? Surely, it cannot be comfortable. When Draco’s feet take him to the beach, he tells himself that he simply wants to see Harry shivering in the cold and feel the nasty petulant joy that is brought by someone one dislikes suffering. After all, if Harry is truly as miserable out there as Draco imagines he must be, there is nothing stopping Harry from heading into town and helping himself to a little of the local hospitality - nothing but Harry’s own hostile stubbornness, that is.

At night, the ocean is a rolling expanse of darkness, glinting here and there under the pale starlight. There is no moon tonight, and Draco is squinting to see where Harry is. Dark-haired, in dirty muted-colored clothing, he is easy to confuse with the debris that is all over the beach - it is just dark stains on the silvery sand. Draco calls out Harry’s name and notices of the dark stains moving.

“There you are,” Draco says, coming closer. It’s hard to walk on the sand, and he contemplates taking off his shoes. Would it be proper? Is there anyone here that cares about what’s proper and what’s not?

“There I am,” Harry agrees. The darkness smoothes over the jut of his chin, the prominence of his cheekbones. He looks younger and more open this way.

Draco stands over him, not knowing what to say. It’s not as cold here as he thought, and Harry is definitely not shivering. He knows now everything he wanted to, should he head back? There is that hot dinner and soft bed waiting for him after a tiring day in the Laboratory.

“Sit down,” Harry offers, patting the sand next to himself.

“No, thank you,” Draco says. “I prefer not to sit somewhere dead crabs could be lying. Or even alive ones, for that matter.”

“I will protect you from all crabs,” Harry laughs. “Even zombie ones, if there are any.”

“Zombies?” Draco echoes. “What’s a zombie?”

Harry frowns and shrugs.

“I don’t know. Something nasty, by the sound of it. Anyway, I know how to kill it if it attacks, so stop chickening out and sit with me.”

Draco rolls his eyes - the gesture is wasted in the dark, surely, but he cannot refrain from it - and gingerly sits down.

“So, how do you kill something zombie?” He asks.

“Blow its head off,” Harry says very seriously. “It’s the only way.”

“Where did you learn that?” Draco wonders. “I have received a finest education but I have never heard of zombie creatures.”

Harry snorts.

“I bet your education isn’t any better than mine,” he says.

“Oh yes? Then pray tell me, where do you find a bezoar?” Draco taunts. The question is simple, something any child would know; Draco should have probably chosen something more difficult, something only a Potion Master in the making would be aware of - but something inside him makes him blurt out the one about bezoar, as if he is sure Harry doesn’t know that.

It bothers Draco, the way his mind seems to be all torn into different parts next to Harry, each wanting something different, surging with knowledge and wishes Draco is reasonably sure he never possessed before. Harry bothers him, through and through.

Draco wishes he could be free of Harry’s pull, could go back to resting and dancing and brewing without a care in the world. The only thing wrong with Little Whinging is Harry, really.

Maybe that’s why Draco is drawn to him. He has never been truly proper, has Draco? He shudders in a sudden onset of hurt, knowing he is a disappointment. To whom? Why?

“I’ll have you know that bezoar can be found in the stomach of a goat,” Harry says, his voice pompous on purpose. He is obnoxious and his teeth are white in the darkness. Draco’s thoughts of him are disjointed; all of Draco is disjointed. “It’s an antidote to most known poisons.”

“Right,” Draco says. He feels feverish.

Harry turns to him, still grinning, but stops as soon he can see Draco’s face.

“Hey, are you alright?”

“No,” Draco says. He clenches his teeth, furious with himself for admitting a weakness. “There’s something wrong with you.”

“Me? I’m not the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“I’ve seen you,” Draco snaps. “You’re wrong.”

“What, about the bezoar? I’m pretty sure I was right -”

“No! You’re just wrong! All of you! You’re an abomination!” Draco scrambles to stand up, to gain some form of control over the conversation, but his hands and feet are slipping in the sand. “You shouldn’t be here!”

Draco’s words are marked by a deafening crack of thunder. It feels like it’s directly above them, him and Harry, and it would perhaps be prudent to look up and see if the rain is already here but Draco couldn’t be bothered.

“I’d like not to be here, thank you very much!” Harry’s face is an angry grimace in the dark. “I can’t leave! I can’t! I tried! And fuck you, by the way!”

Now that could be arranged, Draco thinks, savage and careless. He lets the thought go immediately like it’s a hot cauldron he just touched with an unprotected hand and swings a punch at Harry.

He didn’t really expect it to connect but it does. He feels something give under his knuckles. Harry gasps, hand flying up to his face, covering his nose. Drops of bright red blood sip through his fingers.

“What the fuck was that for!?”

Distantly, Draco wonders why Harry hasn’t clocked him back yet.

“I shouldn’t have expected anything from you,” Harry continues. What he says sounds to Draco like he’s in a conversation that Draco isn’t privy to. “When you first came here, I thought you were different at first. I was wrong.”

Blood is collecting slowly into one big drop at Harry’s bent elbow. It’s trembling perilously, the gravity tugging it down, down.

“What, does everyone here hit your stupid face?” Draco asks, feeling the need to protect the kind and hospitable residents of Little Whinging, even if it shouldn’t matter in the least what Harry thinks of them. “No one here would have hurt a fly.”

Harry snorts and immediately grimaces at the pain in his nose.

“No... actually, no one hit me. Just you.”

More blood flows down, and the big drop finally falls. It hits the sand, and an enormous lightning cracks the sky in two. It’s so big, it seems like it’s dipping the bottom tip into the roiling sea.

Harry’s lips open in a surprised ‘o’.

“What is it?” Draco asks. He feels calmer now that he has punched Harry as if it was something he’d wanted to do for years but never could quite manage to accomplish. Which is a ridiculous thought, seeing as Draco has only known Harry for less than two days. Then again, Harry is annoying enough that it can justifiably _feel_ like years.

“Did you see the lightning?” Harry whispers. It’s hard to discern his words under the thunder which comes more and more often, with only seconds in between deafening bouts. “Did you see?”

Harry lifts his bloodied fingertips to his forehead, his nose seemingly forgotten. Blood drips freely now, hitting the sand in an uneven rhythm. The wind picks up and throws the first cold droplets of rain into Draco’s face.

“The storm,” Draco says. “It has come.”

Harry moves his fingers blindly, drawing something on his own forehead - Draco would have thought he is touching something but Harry’s forehead is smooth, there’s nothing there. The blood coming off the fingers leaves a crude drawing of a lightning behind.

It makes no sense, yet Draco thinks it looks remarkably like it should always have been there.

Draco wishes for a brief moment for things to start making sense again; for sunlit afternoons in his Potions Laboratory, for unhurried walks with Tom by his side, for Petunia’s sweet scones. However, he knows the wish is never going to come true now. The storm has come. Draco didn’t know what the storm means but he knows now: it’s the point of no return.

The wind messes with Harry’s hair; the rain smudges the blood on his forehead, running down to Harry’s eyebrows in pale pink rivulets. There’s something beneath the blood now.

Draco reaches out without thinking and swipes his thumb along the remaining blood, wiping it off. Harry lets him, weirdly trusting after Draco hit him.

“Sorry,” Draco says. The word feels foreign in his mouth. “I - I shouldn’t have hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “Well, not okay, but you bloodthirsty Slytherins just can’t help yourselves. See a Gryffindor face, hit the Gryffindor face.”

“Bloodthirsty who?” Draco asks. He feels like he knows the word, like it’s dear to him and he has used it more times than he can count, but his mind cannot connect the sounds to a meaning. It’s very frustrating.

He rubs at Harry’s forehead again, cleaning off the last of the blood. Now, where smooth skin should have been, there is a scar - a very old one, by the looks of it. It’s shaped like a lightning.

“Where did you get this?” Draco asks.

“Get what?”

“This.” Draco deliberately traces the scar with his fingertip.

“I don’t know,” Harry whispers. He’s facing Draco, but even in the scarce starlight and intermittent lightning Draco can see in Harry’s eyes that his thoughts are far away from here, deep in a memory Draco cannot reach. “I should know, shouldn’t I? But I don’t know.”

The rain is drenching them, chilling Draco to the bone. His hair is plastered to his head, and he has to blink from time to time to get rid of the heavy water collected on his eyelashes.

He thinks of offering Harry to go into town together, find shelter, a fire and a cup of hot tea. Maybe Tom can make sense of all this, sudden old scars, freak storms, hazy memories.

As if in response to Draco’s tumultuous thoughts, Tom speaks from behind, clearly heard despite all the noise. Draco whirls around to face him.

“Oh, Draco. What am I going to do with you?”

* * *

“You had to come here without me and start a storm,” Tom says. He looks calm, contrasting with the weather raging all around him. The wind is tearing at his robes but Tom doesn’t seem to pay attention. “I never would have let you, had I been here.”

“What? I didn’t start anything,” Draco protests. It’s unfair to be accused of something like that. He probably could cause a storm with magic, yes, but it would have to be a conscious effort and with how huge this storm is, it would leave him completely drained. And he would have needed his wand, definitely.

His wand. Where is his wand? Where is anyone’s wand, for that matter? Draco sifts though his memories of yesterday and today but can’t remember anybody uttering a single spell. Not a cleaning charm, not a Wingardium Leviosa, nothing. Is Little Whinging a Muggle town? But they wouldn’t have built a Potions Laboratory then, surely? And that Quidditch pitch that Harry mentioned?

“Tom,” Harry says. His voice carries a threat within it, and Draco glances at Harry over his shoulder - why is he angry at Tom? “You’re not who you say you are.”

“Oh? Would you care to enlighten me as to who I really am?” Tom smiles without warmth.

Both of them seem to have forgotten that Draco is even there. Draco isn’t sure if he should feel offended or relieved by that. Maybe not relieved after all, not until he takes a few steps to the side because if they start a magic duel or even a vulgar fistfight, Draco will inevitably be caught in the middle. He moves cautiously backwards and to the right a little bit so that he stands as far from Tom as Harry and a little bit to the side.

Harry lifts his hand and writes in the air, a trail of crimson sparks forming letters: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

“I remember you doing this,” Harry says. “And then you did that.”

Harry waves his hand and the letters start flying, swapping places. When they finish, Draco reads out loud: “I am Lord Voldemort.”

These words send a chill down his spine, a far more powerful one than the rain still coming down on him could ever inflict. There is blind, primal fear, and reluctant, disgusted attraction, and awe, and disdain all rolled into one when he says this title.

This reaction is much stronger than any mere words should elicit. Maybe, Draco thinks, maybe Harry is right and Tom is something else entirely behind his beautiful face, behind the mild demeanor. Something terrifying.

“Lord Voldemort,” Tom repeats. His lips curve into a smile. “Do you know who Lord Voldemort is, Harry? Do you remember your destiny?”

“My destiny,” Harry says, “is to kill you.”

Whoa, Draco thinks, that escalated quickly. He wishes that he could take the punch back, that Harry’s blood never touched the sand, but he knows deep inside that all of this is as inevitable as the movements of the sun in the sky. Tom said ‘destiny’. There’s no escaping that. 

“Or,” Tom counters, “to be killed by me.”

Tom makes a step forward, closer to Harry. Harry tenses but doesn’t move otherwise.

“I will kill you,” Tom promises. “I will feed your blood and your flesh to the sea, and the storm will calm down.”

Fear gnaws at Draco’s stomach. Much as he doesn’t like Harry, he doesn’t want him to die. He also doesn’t want Tom to die but it sounds like someone here needs to die one way or the other. Draco just hopes it isn’t him, slapped aside as collateral damage.

Where the fuck is his wand? He would have given his soul for an ability to cast right now. Draco catches himself envying Harry who apparently doesn’t need a wand to make magic happen - just look at those words, still hanging in the air between Harry and Tom - but on the other hand if not being especially powerful means not having a rather frightening destiny, then maybe Draco is okay with that.

The storm continues to rage around them. The rain is coming down in buckets - it literally feels like someone upended an enormous bucket of icy water on them. The wind is getting to the point where Draco considers clutching at Harry to avoid being blown away into the sea. He looks askance at the foamy waves licking the beach at his feet. If he gets into the water, he is essentially dead because he can’t swim. Who has time to teach their children to swim when they can be teaching them Dark spells? Certainly not Lucius Malfoy.

“Lucius,” Draco says out loud. He knows this name, he must know, otherwise he wouldn’t have thought it, right?

And he knows. A whirlwind of memories slams into him, leaving him breathless, his knees weak and his eyes unfocused.

Lucius is his father.

Tom is his Lord.

Harry is his enemy.

Hogwarts, peacocks, snakes, blood, books, robes, feathers, spells, kisses, tears, Quidditch - everything hits him at once. It’s a bit like side-along Apparition, except Draco is not going anywhere. He gulps down frigid air, and a fear no less frigid is settling in the pit of his stomach. Where is he? What is this place? Now that he looks back at Little Whinging, he knows this place is not natural, despite feeling real, the way some nightmares make complete sense even after one wakes up and feel as real as the sweat-soaked pillow under one’s head. And as far as Draco understands, Little Whinging’s probably not even his place. It’s Harry’s.

Harry was here first. The town is full of Weasleys and other people Harry likes. Even Harry’s bloody owl is here - no wonder Draco couldn’t remember its name, he never knew it to begin with since it wasn’t his bird.

Draco looks back at Harry and Tom. They are looking at each other without saying a word, each waiting for the other to make the first move. If they knew whose nightmare it is, it would be easier for Harry to act, Draco thinks. As it stands, Tom probably knows but doesn’t hurry to do anything because it would tip his hand. No, that would not do at all, Tom needs to be sure he will win, preferably in one fell swoop. Draco knows that it’s the way Lord Voldemort likes it.

“Come on, Harry,” Tom says. “Attack me. What are you waiting for?”

“What are _you_ waiting for?” Harry retorts. As far as comebacks go, this is weak but then again, Harry Potter didn’t become famous because of his sparkling wit, did he?

“You will find out soon enough,” Tom says. If that’s not ominous, then Draco doesn’t know what is.

“Harry,” Draco whispers. Now that he has regained many years of memories where he consistently called Harry by his surname, using his given name feels strange. Harry glances at him briefly, and Draco wonders if Harry remembers their enmity, too. “Potter. We need to get out of here.”

“How?“ Harry asks. “Got any bright ideas? I’m open to any suggestions, here.”

Draco licks his lips because despite the pouring rain, they suddenly feel dry. This is important. Draco can’t even be sure but he thinks the nightmare is Harry’s after all and he is reluctantly willing to bet both Harry’s and his own lives on it.

“Wake up,” Draco says. “You need to wake up.”

“Brilliant!” Harry hisses. “I’ve been trying to do just that over the last ten minutes, and we’re still here. Any other ideas?”

“Well, try harder!” Draco snaps. “I don’t know what happens if we die here, but I don’t think it’s anything good!”

“You have always been smart, Draco,” Tom says. His eyes are pitch-black, and Draco thinks that his nose might have become flatter while Draco wasn’t looking. “A clever little thing but ultimately unimportant. You will die here, next to Harry whose life you have always wanted to share. Sharing death is much more romantic, don’t you think?”

“Share life?” Harry repeats and shakes his head. “Never mind, it’s not important right now.”

Draco is absurdly grateful to Harry for dropping the topic.

“The important thing is to get ready to die,” Tom says. His voice has a rustling undertone, like dry leaves in the wind. “Are you ready, Harry?”

“Are you so sure you can kill me?” Harry is clenching his fists. Draco is pretty sure Harry knows a fistfight won’t help him any and this is just an involuntary gesture. “You failed once already.”

“Through no effort of your own,” Tom smiles. “Have you forgotten there is no more mother to protect you with her love?”

“I have grown up since,” Harry says. He is tense like a drawn string.

“You will always be an insolent child to me,” Tom says. “Besides, this time I’m not attacking you alone.”

Harry’s eyes flicker to Draco for a moment, and Draco’s cheeks flush even though it’s not at all surprising that Harry is expecting him to be on Tom’s side. Draco would have expected himself to be on Tom’s side.

He is not so sure which side he is on, to be honest. He just wants to wake up.

“Oh, not him,” Tom dismisses Draco with a laugh. “There are other allies here.”

They must have been waiting for Tom to say it, hiding in the darkness, or maybe they appeared from it. Either way, now that they are here, they are coming closer, and Draco recognizes most of them. Here is Remus Lupin, and a huge bunch of Weasleys, and Granger. Even the beavers are marching towards the shore, their teeth glinting in the starlight. None of them look friendly and hospitable anymore. Their faces are empty of emotion, and they move in unison as if they had choreographed it beforehand - which is a ridiculous idea but Draco would have preferred it to the nauseating realization that they are not real people. They are a part of the nightmare, and no matter whose it is, Tom is their master.

The rain and the wind are raging on, and Draco isn’t sure if he is numb from the cold or from the fear. He looks at Harry, hoping against hope that the latter knows what to do, how to fight it, but he is just standing there, looking at them with his mouth open. He looks beyond stupid that way.

“Do something,” Draco says. “They are gonna kill us!”

Harry turns his head to Draco, looking for all the world like he had forgotten who Draco is entirely.

“What am I supposed to do?” He asks. “They are my friends. My family. Are you suggesting I kill them?”

There’s all this talk about killing, Draco thinks, but so far everyone’s alive. Talk, talk, talk.

“They are not real!”

“What if they are?” Harry argues. If Draco was Tom, he would strike right now, while Harry is distracted, but Tom isn’t moving. “What if they are trapped here too, and if they die here, they die in the real world?”

“I really don’t think so,” Draco hisses. “Look at them! Look! They are like marionettes!”

Draco wishes there were ways to prove to Harry without a doubt that these are constructs of magic. But even if they don’t leave traces in the sand, or don’t have a smell, or _something_ , the storm has erased all those signs and waiting the storm out is definitely out of the question.

“What if he just took over their minds?” Harry says. “I can’t... I can’t risk hurting them.”

“Argh!” Draco says, and he would have thought of something better to add but this is the moment when the residents of Little Whinging reach them.

Granger is at the front, so she comes up to Harry first. She lifts her hand and touches Harry’s shoulder, and he screams.

“I remember what it is like to burn at your touch,” Tom says in a pleasant voice. “It is only fair that you should have a taste of your own medicine.”

Granger puts the second hand on Harry, too, and he sort of crumbles to his knees in pain. He tries to crawl back, to get away, but there’s a Weasley behind him - Draco doesn’t know this one, he looks old enough to have left Hogwarts before Draco came there and most of his visible skin is covered in tattoos.

Harry hits the Weasley’s knees with his back, looks back and up, twisting his neck - his rag of a shirt slips down one shoulder and there’s an ugly, bleeding wound right there - and breathes out: “Charlie...”

Whatever else he wants to say, it’s lost and forgotten at once when Weasley picks Harry up by his neck, quite effortlessly. Harry tries to speak or scream but all of it turns into helpless moans and gasping. His fingers scramble along Weasley’s arm, trying to wedge in between it and Harry’s neck and pry it off. It’s fruitless, as to be expected.

“No!” Draco hears someone screams, and only by the way the rain hits his lips and the inside of his mouth he understands it was him. “Harry! No!”

Draco doesn’t have a wand, he doesn’t have any weapon, so he simply flings himself at Weasley, hoping to make him fall and let Harry go. To his astonishment, he doesn’t hit a wall of muscled flesh but goes right through it instead - Weasley melts away at his touch, disappearing in a cloud of smoke. Draco hits Harry, and they land on the sand in a painful tangle of limbs.

“Oomph,” Harry says, his voice raspy. “Get off me, Malfoy, I can’t breathe.”

He sounds urgent and slightly shocked but not outright hostile. Draco finds purchase in the wet sand and gets up, kneeing Harry in the process several times - completely accidentally. Even if he might have liked to do it on purpose, settling old quarrels can wait until they both get out of here, so Draco offers Harry a hand to help him up.

Harry takes Draco’s hand without hesitation and climbs to his feet.

“Now do you agree that you have to fight them?” Draco takes a look at the remaining crowd of Weasleys and Granger who are about to attack again and pulls Harry a few steps away. At least they are still walking, not running, so Draco has a few moments to try and talk some sense into Harry.

“Maybe you should fight them instead. What did you do to Charlie anyway?” Harry touches the hand-shaped wound on his neck and makes a face. “I couldn’t do anything but he just... went up in smoke when you came at him.”

“I don’t know.” Draco checks how far the residents of Little Whinging are and moves himself and Harry a few more steps away. There will be nowhere to go after that because the sea is already licking their feet with restless, foamy waves, and swimming away is not really an option. They have to think quickly.

“Maybe you should try touching them,” Harry offers reluctantly. “It doesn’t look like Charlie hurt you in any way.”

Draco isn’t sure if he should appreciate Harry implicitly agreeing that the fight is necessary by offering that Draco does it. What if others can hurt Draco after all? He doesn’t really know why he flung himself into the thick of things to protect Harry but he is reasonably sure that Harry won’t do the same.

Draco has always wanted Harry safe and unharmed more than Harry wanted him. This stupid weakness has been his bane for as long as he can remember, and he tried to fight it, oh he tried.

Now he has a chance to get rid of Harry once and for all - because Draco is reasonably sure that even if Harry doesn’t die in real life after dying here, he will definitely stay a vegetable - for some reason he turns around and marches towards the silent crowd of Weasleys, beavers and Granger. Or, well, simply Weasleys and beavers. That will suffice.

“Malfoy?” Harry calls after him, sounding surprised.

Maybe it was a joke when Harry offered Draco to fight, or maybe he just didn’t expect Draco to actually do it. Draco wouldn’t expect it either. He hates fighting because when he fights, he might lose - it was Harry who taught him that - and losing hurts in many different ways at once.

However, Draco is ready to do just about anything if it means he can get out of here, out of the deceptively lovely town, out of the furious storm, far away from both Tom and Harry.

He also doesn’t want to watch Harry dying in front of him because while Draco may have said he does once or twice, his stomach turns into a nest of worms when he thinks of painful, drawn-out death befalling anyone at all.

Papa would be so disappointed.

Draco reaches the crowd and walks right through them. They don’t feel like anything to him, perhaps because he doesn’t really feel much of anything except a moderate amount of contempt towards them outside the nightmare. He wonders, remembering how he danced with them and they seemed completely solid then, flesh and blood. Then again, he knows now they are not real - none of it is real, except Harry, so Draco walks on, each of them turns into wispy smoke as soon as Draco touches them, and the wind tears them apart before Draco can blink. It’s so easy, too easy.

“Well, that has been fun,” Tom says.

At the sound of his voice, a fierce wave of fear squeezes Draco from the inside. Still, he has to try, so he steps over to Tom and reaches out to touch.

Whatever Tom is, he is not a figment of anyone’s imagination.

“I’m not as easy to kill,” Tom says, indulgently like explaining a simple thing to a child, and catches Draco’s wrist in a vise-like grip. “And now you are both going to die.”

Tom’s eyes are black like pools of ink in the darkness. Feeling the fear up in his throat - it tastes like bile - Draco tries to free his arm, first by tugging, then by attempting to kick at Tom. His foot connects with an ankle but it feels like he has hit stone, and it *hurts*.

“Let him go,” Harry says, his voice low and threatening. Draco knows the threat is not directed at him but it still induces a shiver along his spine.

“Or what?” Tom smiles and breaks Draco’s wrist in one smooth, quick movement.

Draco cries out and stumbles; Tom lets him go and Draco is about to fall when Harry catches him.

Harry feels warm and strong and Draco allows himself a tiny moment of weakness, leaning into his touch, letting Harry support Draco’s weight. It’s just a moment, though, and Draco straightens up.

“There’s nothing you can do, Harry,” Tom says. The wind is tearing at his robes, his hair, howling around them like an angry werewolf. Draco would know; he has heard Fenrir Greyback prowling the forests around Malfoy Manor on a full moon.

“That’s what you thought about fifteen years ago, didn’t you?” Harry says. “Almighty Lord Voldemort, heading over to kill a helpless child. What could possibly go wrong?”

He laughs, and Tom’s smooth mask of superiority slips as he sneers.

“I know more now than I did before. I am more than I was before,” Tom says.

“Every time you split your soul, you became less,” Harry spits out, and Draco for once has no idea what this means. Splitting his soul? It sound like something Tom would do, but Draco doesn’t remember anything of the sort. Does it mean there are memories yet to recover or it is the kind of information that gets people killed for the sole crime of knowing it?

Well, Tom is going to kill Draco either way. It’s not a consolation, per se, but it keeps Draco from panicking.

“Now,” Harry continues, “now you’re less than nothing, I’d say. Dregs of a mutilated soul in a butt-ugly artificial body - is that really what you dreamed about when you were sixteen yourself?”

“I dreamt of immortality,” Tom says. “It is now within my grasp, after all these years, and the only thing I’ve left to do before I get it is to kill you. I might not have managed to kill you from the outside, but it has now changed.” Tom smiles again. Draco has never been so terrified before, and he hopes he never is again. “I am on the inside.”

“I had Occlumency lessons,” Harry says, stubborn to a fault. “I can throw you out now that I know what is going on.”

Tom laughs out loud, triumphant in a way that - as far as Draco is aware - only means bad things.

“Perhaps you could,” he allows, grinning, and it’s unsettling to see Tom grin. “That is, if I was invading your head, maybe you would have enough power to put up a wobbly shield or two, woefully undereducated as you are. However, I already told you, Harry. I’m not attacking from the outside.”

He makes a pause to wait out an especially deafening blow of thunder.

“I have always been here.”

“What do you mean?” Harry says, thrown by the declaration.

“Think, Harry Potter,” Tom says. “I want you to know why and how I can defeat you here, in the mind that should have only been your own. I want you to know it all and see you crumble before I crush you. Think.”

There is a silence filled only with the sounds of elements, and Draco breathes through the pain in his wrist, grateful for the small reprieve. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much even though it’s not bloody real, but it does and he doesn’t question it too closely, cradling his limp hand in his good one.

Next to him, Harry’s breath hitches, and Draco catches himself wondering how he could have caught this tiny sound through the cacophony of the nature’s fury.

“That night,” Harry says, voice strangely devoid of emotion. “You killed that night, and it broke off another piece of your soul, didn’t it? It came off... and it lodged... in here.”

Draco is fairly sure that he needs a lot more information to understand this properly but even as is it makes the fear twist his stomach in knots.

“I knew you were smarter than you let on,” Tom taunts. “Now, Harry - it is high time to say goodbye.”

Tom raises his hands and they shimmer with green flames, mesmerizing and deadly. Draco has never seen it cast like that but he knows what it is.

Can Harry survive it again, when it’s aimed at his very soul like that? Draco doesn’t know and doesn’t want to find out.

He glances at Harry and he is stricken by the way Harry’s eyes are the exact same colour as the Avada Kedavra growing on Tom’s palms high and bright. Harry raises a hand too, but it’s not awash with any magic at all. It’s just a hand, a last - brave and useless, so very Gryffindor - attempt to protect himself.

Draco has grown up hating Harry. It would have all been so much easier if hatred was all there was to it.

He doesn’t want to die; on the contrary, he wants to live, fiercely, and wants to be happy and safe in some far-away future that he could work towards. But he is trapped in Harry Potter’s head with a madman who will most likely kill Draco as well, with no discernible way out.

His death is a foregone conclusion, and all he can do is try to go into it on his own terms.

There’s a regret in the back of his mind - he will never say goodbye to his mother, he will never play Quidditch again, he will never do a million things - as he steps in front of Harry the moment a ball of malicious green fire starts racing towards him.

It’s the lingering regret and the resigned fear that make Draco squeeze his eyes shut and raise his arm to cover his face. He’s not Gryffindor enough to look death in the eye, not by a long shot.

He waits for half a heartbeat and then Avada Kedavra drives into his forearm and it explodes with pain so intense Draco can’t help but scream. He falls onto his knees, Harry’s hands catching him before he slams face-first into the wet sand.

“Draco,” he hears, and the voice is Harry’s, and he would be glad to die like this if he wasn’t fully concentrated on the unbearable, all-consuming pain. “Draco, Merlin, Draco...”

He’s still not dead. If it still hurts, it means that he’s not dead, Draco reasons, bent over his arm and drowning in burning pain, like a sea of fire flowing from that one spot in his forearm. It can’t be possible to still feel hurt when you’re dead, can it? Death is supposed to be nothing, the absence of everything including pain. Yet Draco is still in so much pain that his fingers scramble for purchase and find it in Harry’s hand and squeeze tight like a vise as he sobs and screams and Harry makes soothing noises fraught with panic and confusion.

If it’s his afterlife, it’s failing to impress him so far.

“Look, Draco,” Harry says, lips almost touching Draco’s temple. Draco can feel their ghostly coolness against his feverish skin, almost. “Look, he -”

Draco only knows one “he” Harry could possibly refer to right now and he makes himself turn his head and look, choking on the pain, because who knows what Tom is trying to do now that his Avada has - apparently - failed to work correctly.

Tom is not trying to do anything. He is too busy screaming his own head off, green fire consuming him from the inside out. He is shaking, and convulsing, and completely incoherent as the fire eats up more and more of him, leaving nothing behind.

Draco watches it happen, even though it’s all a bit blurry from the tears rolling unbidden down his cheeks, and suddenly, when there’s nothing left of Tom - not even an echo of his screams - the pain stops.

Draco gasps, shell-shocked by the sudden relief, and sags into Harry’s ready, steady embrace.

“Draco,” Harry whispers. The hurricane around them picks up even more, carrying both sand and water in it, making it impossible to see anything. “He’s dead... the Avada, it hit your Dark Mark... Draco, why?”

The incredulity in Harry’s voice, the wonder and awe are something Draco has never felt directed at himself at all, much less from Harry. He basks in the now, even though his body is still shuddering in the aftershocks of the pain as cruel as any Cruciatus, and the hurricane is making it hard to breathe.

“Why not?” He says and laughs.

He has no idea what is going to happen now that Tom is not here to hold the elaborate illusion of a town together anymore. The hurricane brings up more and more sand and water, and they mix and swirl in the air until Draco can no more tell the difference between them or even whether there’s anything solid left underneath him and Harry anymore.

The last twinges of pain start fading, as well as the cold and the wetness and the sting of the wind, and Draco realizes - while he still can - that he is not going to have the illusion of a body for much longer.

He twists in Harry’s arms, turning so that he would face him, in a hurry to catch the last few fleeting moments while they both still have _faces_.

“Harry,” Draco says and stops because what is there to say now, really?

Instead, he leans forward a bit more, closer to Harry, and covers Harry’s lips, open in surprise, with a light, chaste kiss which shoots a veritable lightning of desire and happy contentment down his spine.

He wonders if kissing here means their very souls are kissing, without the bothersome bulk of physical bodies in the way. This thought is horribly sappy and stupid but... there are worse thoughts to think as one dies. Definitely.

“Draco,” Harry says and lunges forward out of his own volition for another kiss, one that is hungrier and more passionate and clumsier and yet utterly perfect and Draco feels his body - his soul - melt before he stops feeling anything whatsoever and the remnants of the world around them disappear.

* * *

Waking up is hard. It feels like dragging himself out of quicksand, desperately pushing up and up without any solid ground beneath his feet, and when Draco opens his eyes, it’s overwhelming, even though it’s dark and quiet.

He sits up, his head heavy and thoughts unwieldy, and recognizes Hogwarts hospital wing. There’s only a bit of moonlight coming through the windows but it makes the white walls and white bedsheets in front of Draco look otherworldly, ethereal. Draco wonders why he is not in bed but on the floor and remembers - he snuck in to take a look at the unconscious Harry Potter, to try and read his thoughts. Aunt Bella taught him Legilimency last summer, and he decided an unconscious enemy is a good opportunity to hone his skills and find out something useful.

He didn’t plan to hurt Harry. He also didn’t plan to save him.

Draco leans against the bed where Harry is lying and watches him sleep. He seems serene, for once not frowning and not looking angry; he looks at peace under Draco’s stare.

Draco deliberates whether he should wake Harry up or not. If yes, what can they say to each other? In the real world, without a threat of imminent death looming over their very heads, they cannot do and say the same things they did, can they?

Suddenly upset, Draco pushes himself to his feet and turns around, ready to walk away.

“Wait,” he hears and freezes. Then turns around again.

Harry’s voice is rough since he just woke up, but Harry seems to be otherwise completely awake. And aware.

“Wait,” he says again. His eyes are huge dark pools in this poor light and Draco can’t tell what Harry is thinking. “Draco.”

“Harry,” Draco echoes.

They are looking at each, not saying another word.

Maybe, just maybe they don’t even need to.


End file.
